FIRST FRUITS.
SARAH, DAUGHTER OF PRIEST ESHOO.--MARTHA.--HANNAH.
Let us now turn aside to take a nearer view of the first fruits of this
revival. The first to ask the way to heaven, to find it, and to enter
through the gate into the city, was Sarah, or Sarra, as the Nestorians
pronounce it. She was born among the rude mountaineers of Gawar, in
1831. Her father, Eshoo, then a deacon, regarded her at first with the
aversion Nestorian fathers usually felt towards their daughters; but
her strong attachment to him while yet a child, so won his heart, that
when the Koords overran Gawar, in 1835, and the family fled from their
smouldering village, he was willing to be seen carrying her on his
back, in the same way that his wife bore her younger sister. The family
stopped for a time at Degala, and subsisted by begging from door to
door, lodging at night in a stable. The fine intellect of the
self-taught father soon brought him to the notice of the missionaries;
and one day Mrs. Grant, then just about securing her long-cherished
desire of a school for girls, asked him, in her winning way, "Have you
any daughters? and will you not send them to our little school?" The
inquiry revived a wish that he had felt while yet in Gawar, that his
daughter should learn to read; and in the spring of 1841, when he moved
from Degala to the city, he sent her to the mission school. She had
just entered her tenth year--a tall, slender, dark-eyed girl, even then
giving indications of her early death, and though often a great
sufferer, she applied herself so diligently to study, that she soon
became, as she ever continued to be, the best scholar in the school.
The ancient Syriac Bible was the principal text book; and she so far
mastered that language as to acquire a knowledge of Scripture rarely
attained in any land by a child of her years. She was the walking
concordance of the school; and her knowledge of the doctrines of the
Bible was even more remarkable. Under the teaching of Mrs. Harriet
Stoddard, she had also learned to sing sweetly our sacred music. Still,
with all her acquirements, she was destitute of grace; and her
declining health led her teacher to feel much anxiety for her salvation.
On the first Monday in 1846, she said to Sanum, one of her schoolmates,
who, she knew, was thoughtful, "Sister, we ought to turn to God. Shall
we ever find a better time than when so many are praying for us?" They
together resolved to spend the day in seeking salvation; and the manner
in which they made known this purpose to their teacher, and carried it
out, has been already related. (See p. 116). From that day, she never
seemed to waver. As soon as she found peace for herself, she sought to
make others acquainted with her Saviour; not forgetting, however, that
prayer of the Psalmist, "Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me,
and know my thoughts. See if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me
in the way everlasting." Feeble as she was, she never shrank from
labor. Hours every day were spent in her closet, and the rest of her
time was sacredly used for Christ. She had much to do with the
conversion of the twenty schoolmates whom she was permitted to see in
Christ before she went home; and she did much for the women who came to
the Seminary. Her teacher never knew a young person more anxious to
save souls. Both pupils and visitors loved to have Sarah tell them the
way. They said, "We can see it when she tells us." No wonder they saw
it, for she seemed to look on it all the time. Her teacher depended
much on her, and yet often remonstrated with her for such incessant
labors. Still she felt that she must be about her Father's business
while the day lasted. Her desires for the salvation of her father
seemed to commence with her anxiety for herself; and his feelings were
soon so tender that he could not answer an inquiry about his own state
without tears. Sarah was the first to know that he had found peace. His
first religious intercourse with her was to tell her that he had found
Jesus. He had known that she was thoughtful, but was not prepared to
find her so full of humble hope and holy joy. Next day, when urged by a
missionary to labor for the salvation of his family, he replied, "Sarah
knows the way to heaven better than I do. She can teach me far better
than I could her." Their previous strong attachment now ripened into
Christian love. He never felt that his daily bread had been given him,
if he had not knelt with her in prayer, and his heart been lifted up by
her petitions as well as his own. Her mother at first scoffed; but soon
she, too, sought the Saviour; and her younger daughter, whose evil ways
for a time tried Sarah sorely, was also afterwards brought into the
kingdom.
Mr. Stocking used to call her "the best theologian among the
Nestorians," and often said, "If I want to write a good sermon, I like
to sit down first and talk with Sarah, and then be sure that she is
praying for me."
Her attachment to the means of grace was strong. She went to every
meeting, even after she could not reach the chapel without help. Her
emaciated form, her hollow cough, her eye bright with unnatural lustre,
all told that she was passing away, but, combined with her sweet
singing and heavenly spirit, led her companions sometimes to whisper,
as she took her seat in the chapel, "Have we not an Elizabeth
Wallbridge among us?"--"The Dairyman's Daughter," in Syriac, had just
then issued from the press, and was a great favorite with the
Nestorians.
As early as March, it was seen that she must die. Still she clung to
the school, and not for nought. She had a mission to fulfil, and her
Saviour strengthened her for the work to which he called her. As yet,
none of the pious Nestorians had finished their course. With the
converts, victory over death was something heard of, but never
witnessed; and Sarah was chosen to show them "in what peace a Christian
can die." Perhaps the last days of no young disciple were ever watched
with more eager interest. "Will Christ sustain us to the last? Will he
be with us through the dark valley? Will he come for us and receive us
to himself, as he promised?" These were to them momentous questions;
and they stood ready to answer them according as the Lord supported
her. Ever since her death they have looked upon the last change from a
new point of view. But we must not anticipate.
The five months between her conversion and her decease were very
precious to all who knew her. She sometimes sat with her teacher and
talked an hour at a time on the home of the blessed. She seemed to look
in upon its glories, and share its gladness; and then her thoughts
turned to the perishing around her, saying, "I would labor a little
longer for them, if it is my Father's will." The young converts whom
she had taught could not bear the thought of her leaving them; but they
sought to stay an angel in his course. The dross had been consumed, and
the spirit was made meet for the inheritance of the saints in light.
[Illustration: Courtyard of the Female Seminary]
About the middle of May, it was felt that she must go home to her
father, whose house was near the Seminary. It was a beautiful day in a
Persian summer. The morning exercises were closed. When her teacher
told her what they thought, she replied in a whisper, "I think I had
better go, but I want to be alone a little before I leave not to
return." With weary step she sought the closet where first she found
her Saviour: it was occupied. Perhaps He saw she might think more of
the place than was meet; so she spent an hour in another room, and then
returned, saying, "I am ready to go now." She went supported by a
schoolmate on either side: stopping in the court, she turned to take a
last look of the dear home where she had learned of Jesus, and,
plucking some of the roses that bloomed by her side, passed on. On the
preceding page that court is represented, as seen from the adjoining
one. She suffered intensely for a few days. Her disease forbade her
lying down, even at night. But still not a day passed that she did not
gather some women about her, and point them to Jesus. Her teacher
visited her frequently, and often found her with her Bible open, and
several women around her bed, to whom she was explaining it. The
praying pupils, too, often knelt with her at the accustomed throne of
grace.
One Saturday in June, her father was asked if he could go to
Tergawer--twenty-five miles distant--and preach. His reply was, "I will
see what Sarah says." She said, "Go, father, and I will pray for you."
Sabbath morning came, and her teacher saw that Sarah was almost home:
she told her so, and once more committed the dear pupil to the Saviour
who stood by. She had to return to her duties in school, but first said
to her mother, "Send for me when the Master calls for her, for, if I
cannot go over Jordan with her, I would at least accompany her to the
swelling stream." In the afternoon her sufferings became intense; and
losing herself for a moment, she said, "Call my father." They told her
where he was. "O, yes, I remember. Don't call him. Let him preach; I
can die alone." She then said, "Call Miss Fiske;" and her sister
started to go. But the dying one remembered that it was the hour for
prayer meeting, and beckoned her to return, saying, "She is in meeting
now, with my companions. Don't call her; I can die alone." Perhaps,
with that teacher present, her eyes had not so clearly discerned the
Lord Jesus. Her sufferings were now so great, she hardly spoke for an
hour. Then she said, in a clear voice, "Mother, raise me, that I may
commit my spirit;" for she would never approach her Saviour but on her
knees. Supported, as she had been hundreds of times before, by that
mother's strong arms, and in the attitude of prayer, she said, "Lord
Jesus, receive--" And there she stopped: prayer had ended. Instead of
the closing words of the earthly petition was the opening of the new
song in heaven. The Saviour did not wait for the close of her petition
before he answered it. The teacher had just sat down with her pupils
when the door opened, and a messenger said "Sarah is asleep!" "Yes,"
thought she, gratefully, "till Jesus shall say, 'Awake!'" According to
Eastern custom, Sarah was buried that same evening (June 13th), and the
whole school followed her to the grave, which was close to that of Mrs.
Grant. The first fruit of the school appropriately lies by the side of
her who planted that tree in the garden of the Lord, At the funeral her
teacher was just thinking that Sarah could help her no more, that her
prayers and labors were forever ended, when she looked up, and her eye
rested on the evening star looking down upon the grave. It was a
pleasant thought that she, too, was a star in glory. She was glad that
the first to love Christ was the first to go to be with him, and still
loves to think, of her as waiting for those who used to pray with her
on earth. The Christian life of Sarah was short; but she did much, for
she taught her people how
"Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are."[1]
[Footnote 1: For additional foots about Sarah, see Nestorian Biography,
pp. 25-40.]
After Sarah, like Stephen among the early disciples, had led the way
into the presence of her Saviour, Blind Martha was the next to follow.
She was constrained by sickness to leave the school early in the spring
of 1847, and go home to her parents in Geog Tapa. Though six miles
distant, her schoolmates loved to walk out there to comfort her. They
prized no recreation so much as the privilege of going to see her. They
read and talked with her about her favorite portions of Scripture,
prayed with her, and were never allowed to leave without singing
"Jerusalem, my happy home." At such times, one of them said, "Her
countenance always showed that her spirit was walking the golden
streets." When asked about her health, she uniformly replied, "The Lord
helps me;" and when urged to speak more particularly, would say, "Dear
sisters, the Lord helps me, and that is enough." When, after five or
six of them had prayed in succession, she was asked if she was not
wearied, she would reply, "I know that I am weak, but prayer never
tires me." So great a privilege was it deemed to be with her, that one
morning, when a pious member of the Seminary at Seir was called to
leave the village early, he said, "I cannot go till I have prayed with
Blind Martha, and got from her manna for the road."
Her companions desired very much to be present when she went home; but
this was not permitted. One morning in June, she said, at early dawn,
"Mother, the day breaks; I think Jesus is coming for me now; let me
go." But seeing no change in her appearance, her mother lay down again,
and, when next she woke, found that Jesus had come, and taken her to be
with him in his home above. What was that vision of the glory of
Immanuel that prompted the cry, "Mother, the day breaks!" from one who
never remembered to have seen the light? She became blind in infancy. A
smile remained on her pale face; and well might the sight of Him who
said, "If I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again and
receive you unto myself," leave such a memento of the bliss.
Little Hannah, the youngest member of the school, was suddenly called
home the following September, when only eleven years of age. When she
first came to Christ, her teacher was awakened one morning by her
asking at the bedside, "Is it wrong to wish to die?" "But why do you
want to die?" "That I may go and stay with Jesus, and never sin again."
This desire never left her. Once she said, with tears, "It seems as if
I cannot wait so long to go to my Saviour;" and at another time, "I
fear that I have sinned in not being willing to wait till Jesus calls
me." Before leaving for vacation, each pupil put up her own things in a
bundle, to be laid away till her return. As Hannah was at work on hers,
she said to a girl near her, "Perhaps you will open this. I do not
think that I ever shall. When you come together in the autumn, I trust
that I shall be in the Saviour's school above." So strong was the
desire awakened in her by Him who intended soon to gratify it.
While the cholera raged around her in August, she frequently said,
"This may be my time to go to my dear Saviour;" and repeated it to her
mother on the last morning of her life, but went out as usual to her
work in the vineyard. About noon she became unwell, and said to a
companion, "I am sick; perhaps I shall die soon." "Are you willing?"
"O, yes, I am not afraid to go to Jesus." The disease made rapid
progress, and again she said, "I am very sick; I shall die soon: shall
we not pray together?" Her young friend led in prayer, and then called
on her to follow; but her time for prayer was almost finished. She
could just say, "Bless my dear sister; take me gently through the dark
river;" when she sunk exhausted, and was carried to the house. A mother
bent over an only daughter, and three loving brothers over an only
sister; but they could not keep her back from Jesus. She sent for her
companions, and they hastened to her bedside. She called for her
Testament; but her eyesight was failing her, and she returned it,
saying, "I can never use it more; but read it more prayerfully, and
love the Saviour more than I have done." She lingered through the
night, and rose with the dawn to her long-desired rest in the presence
of her Redeemer.
It Is remarkable that three timid girls should have been chosen to lead
the advance of a great multitude of Nestorians through the dark valley
into the light beyond. No member of the Boy's Seminary died till three
years afterwards; and only two others of this before 1858--a period of
eleven years; but Infinite Wisdom chose, through such weak and timorous
ones, to glorify the power of Christ to bear his people through the
last conflict into everlasting rest.